Death on the Menu

by Lucy Burdette

  Once my friend left and the neighbor’s animals had retreated to their cabin, leaving only tufts of fur behind to mark the scene of the crime, I tapped out a list of notes on my phone to send to Torrence. They were just bits and pieces—his job would be to put them together into something that made sense. Or throw them out if they appeared nonsensical. Or if they didn’t match up with what Officer Boyd reported. Though I couldn’t really imagine what he’d have to add—he’d seemed more interested in culinary insights than police work.

  IT WAS A LOUSY NIGHT, WORSE THAN EXPECTED. FIRST OF ALL, FOUR OF THE INVITED DIGNITARIES NEVER SHOWED UP. THE REMAINING TWO CUBAN GUESTS STORMED OUT BEFORE DESSERT. WHERE TO BEGIN? RUSTY HODGDON, WHO WORKS AT THE HEMINGWAY HOME, SCARED ME TO DEATH WHEN I WENT LOOKING FOR RUM IN THAT CLOSET. HE CLAIMED HE WAS LOOKING FOR THE MEN’S ROOM. AND HE DID SEEM LIKE HE’D BEEN DRINKING, SO IT’S POSSIBLE HE WAS TELLING THE TRUTH. BUT THE CLOSET ISN’T ANYWHERE NEAR THE MEN’S ROOM, SO I DID FEEL SUSPICIOUS.

  I figured Torrence would know which closet I meant. And I wasn’t going to volunteer that I was also snooping among the supplies. That in fact I had gotten there first.

  THE HAVANA MAYOR WAS COLD AS ICE, THOUGH HIS WIFE THINKS THIS HAS TO DO WITH POLITICAL PRESSURE FROM HOME AND MAYBE THE VISIT TO THE CHUGS. IT SEEMED TO ME THAT HE WOULD HAVE PREFERRED TO BE AMONG THE MISSING, TOO. (SHE IS A DARLING WOMAN WHO SPEAKS PERFECT ENGLISH AND SEEMS CAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING ALL SIDES OF A PROBLEM. WOULD EITHER ONE OF THEM BE CAPABLE OF MURDERING A MAN IN COLD BLOOD? IT’S HARD TO PICTURE.)

  I thought hard about how to phrase the next part.

  BOB WOLZ APPEARED VERY WORRIED ABOUT THE FACT THAT NO DEFINITE AGREEMENTS WERE MADE BETWEEN THE TWO CITIES. MAYBE THIS IS RELATED TO FINANCIAL PRESSURE AT THE LITTLE WHITE HOUSE? ANYWAY, HE WAS APOPLECTIC BY THE TIME THE DINNER FIZZLED OUT. EXCUSE ME, BLEW UP.

  I deliberately left out mention of Bill Averyt. I couldn’t see throwing my friend under the bus when I was certain he couldn’t be the killer.

  DANA SEBEK IS EXTREMELY GUNG HO ABOUT MAKING A CONNECTION OVER FISHING AND WATER SPORTS AND LEARNING FROM THEIR HEALTHY CORAL REEFS. BUT IS THERE SOMETHING MORE PERSONAL IN IT FOR HER?

  And more to the point, was she as clueless as she’d appeared last night? I thought not.

  TURNER MARKHAM WAS FULL OF HIMSELF, AS USUAL. IN FACT, I’D SAY HE MADE A JACKASS OF HIMSELF BY CRITICIZING THE WAYS THE CUBAN GOVERNMENT WAS SCREWING ITS PEOPLE. I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY HE WOULD HAVE BEHAVED THIS WAY, EXCEPT IT’S BEEN A LONG, EXHAUSTING WEEK AND THE ALCOHOL WAS FLOWING FREELY.

  Torrence wasn’t a big fan of Markham either, so this probably wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

  OMG, I JUST NOW THOUGHT OF THIS. YOU KNOW THOSE SEQUINS YOU WERE ASKING ABOUT? MRS. DIAZ’S DRESS WAS SPRINKLED WITH THEM. AND NOW THAT I’M THINKING, DANA’S SKIRT WAS MADE OF TULLE, STUDDED WITH BLACK SEQUINS. THEY BOTH LOOKED SO CUTE—THEY HAVE THE FIGURES TO CARRY THOSE DRESSES OFF.

  TMI, no doubt. But that stream of consciousness led to the next question: what female would have been strong enough to wield that knife? Both Mrs. Diaz and Dana looked fit and well toned. And I’d heard that acting in self-defense brought surges of adrenaline. Heck, I hadn’t just heard it, I’d lived it. More than once. But I couldn’t picture Isabella Diaz stabbing someone. And I didn’t know Dana well enough to make that assessment.

  AND PS, YOUR OFFICER TIM WAS A BIG HIT WITH THE KITCHEN STAFF. HE’D LITERALLY DO ANYTHING MY MOTHER SUGGESTED, INCLUDING SCRUBBING POTS. AND, HE WAS VERY INTERESTED IN THE RECIPES. LET’S HOPE THE POLICE DEPARTMENT DOESN’T LOSE HIM TO MY MOTHER’S CATERING COMPANY LOL.

  After those notes were cleared out of my mind, I relaxed a few more minutes with a second cup of coffee, pining for a real café con leche and avoiding my real work. The day was calm, and warming up. The water glinted with flashes of light in the sun, sea gulls cawed and swooped, and I barely noticed the hum of traffic from Palm Avenue. The conversation I’d had with Torrence about marriage and the possibility of my own baggage getting in the way of seeing things clearly kept churning through my brain. Why had my parents gotten divorced? I knew the story that had always been told—my dad finally left when he became convinced they had nothing in common. What exactly did that mean? Was there more?

  I punched my father’s speed dial number. He usually seemed happy to hear from me, though he was abysmally poor at calling himself. His second wife, Allison, often phoned to fill me in on what he would have said. But this topic I needed to broach directly with him. Thank goodness she had not been part of their breakup story. He’d married Allison quite a few years after divorcing Mom, acquiring a stepson, Rory, in the process.

  Once he picked up, I asked if he had a few minutes to chat. Which he did. “I know you don’t really like to rake the past over the coals, but I was thinking about your marriage to Mom. I wondered why it really ended?”

  The silence that came from his end of the line fell cold and heavy like an ice-bucket challenge. I could have filled it up with my own speculations and musings, but this time I felt brave enough to let my question sit.

  “Why in the world are you thinking about that now?” he asked.

  “It’s an important part of my history,” I said. “You know what the shrinks say: those who ignore the past are destined to repeat it. Or something.”

  “The truth is,” he said after clearing his throat half a dozen times, “we’d grown apart. We didn’t have much in common anymore. We were so damn young when we got married—we didn’t know each other very well. Heck, we didn’t know ourselves.”

  “Yes, but you had me in common.”

  He sighed. “Yes, we did, and as I’ve told you before, missing out on parts of your life is one of my great regrets. And it always will be. And I’ll always be grateful to your mother for the amazing person you turned out to be. Why are you asking? Did she put you up to this?”

  “Of course she didn’t,” I answered quickly. “She is delightfully, exquisitely married to Sam. And you’re happy too, I presume.”

  “Of course.” He rustled and harrumphed. “Back then, we had no idea what made marriage work. Neither one of us knew how to talk.”

  I murmured an encouraging mmmm, suppressing the urge to mention that he wasn’t all that great at it now either.

  “Looking back, which I don’t like to do because it’s over and done, I suppose we could have learned. But I had in my mind a career-minded wife who could share the financial responsibilities of a family and our life together. Not a happy homemaker. And that’s what I thought I was getting. And neither one of us was mature enough to have a baby. Fortunately for you, Janet adapted into a wonderful mother. And I suppose some part of her did want a career, as she has one now. How is that going, by the way?”

  “Very well,” I said, mulling over whether to discuss the problems of the weekend with him. I decided not. He sounded normal and supportive right now, but often he couldn’t keep his critical side from coming out. Especially where my mother was concerned. He’d home right in on the fact that maybe, just maybe, she’d gotten in way over her head.

  “It sounds like you’re saying that it was hard to accept who she really was at the time; instead, you focused on your expectations for your fantasy wife, and those weren’t met.”

  “Yes,” he said, “and if you hadn’t happened along, perhaps we wouldn’t have gotten married at all.” He hurried to add, “Not that I’m saying in any way that I wish you didn’t exist.”

  Another call came in, which my phone identified as Bill Averyt. “Dad, it was great talking with you. I have to take this call. Give my love to Rory and Allison.”

  I hung up and accepted the call from Bill. After a perfunctory good morning, he began to pummel me with questions. “Have you heard from the police? Is there any news about the murder? How about Mrs. Diaz, did you hear from her this morning?”

  He was obviously stunned by what had happened at the dinner. “Slow down,” I said. “I can’t answer questions that fast. First
, I haven’t heard anything from the police. I sent some notes over to them this morning about what I noticed. But I honestly didn’t expect anything back. It’s not exactly a two-way street.”

  I snickered. Then, before he could ask, I summarized what I had observed. “I was sorry to even mention Bob, since he’s your friend and your boss and he was so distressed.”

  “And that was nothing compared to what he’s like this morning,” Bill said. “A big meeting of all the foundation’s board members has been called for tomorrow. He’s afraid they’re going to ask for his resignation. Or worse. I can’t believe this is happening. He’s dedicated to that place; he knows the history and the stories as though he’s lived each of them. Losing him would be like a death in the family. And if he’s canned, the rest of us will be next.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Hopefully the police will have sorted this out before the meeting.”

  “We’re not optimistic,” said Bill. “In this case, optimism would be based on a major case of denial. I hoped you’d have something new.”

  I heard a voice in the background.

  “Eric wants to know what you’re doing with those beleaguered mojito cakes.”

  “Sadly, those sat out so long, we had to throw them out last night,” I said. “No one wanted to risk the warm whipped cream. Call it another death in the family,” I added, trying too hard to leave him with a laugh.

  Chapter Nineteen

  If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.

  —Carl Sagan

  After hanging up with Bill, it was past time to buckle down to work. I’d probably get more done at the office, and besides, showing my face would be a good thing for my employment future. But first, I would stop by the Cuban Coffee Queen off Southard Street, buy a large café con leche, maybe with an extra shot of espresso, and attempt to understand what Irena had been trying to tell me yesterday.

  I parked in my spot behind Preferred Properties, home of Key Zest, figuring it would be faster to walk than to weave around downtown looking for parking. And besides, a few extra calories burned would be only good news.

  This branch of the Coffee Queen was located down a small alley lined with local businesses. Irena waved as she saw me coming. I passed through picnic tables of breakfasting tourists and approached the counter.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Geoff will be making your coffee today. He’s in training. It’s actually his first morning on the job, but he’s showing great promise.”

  Inwardly, I groaned. No one could be much good brewing specialty coffee on his first day. Geoff, a wiry guy with his hair shaped into a blue Mohawk, looked absolutely panicked and frozen. He was likely to be overwhelmed if I asked for extras, like the second hit of espresso.

  “Start by packing the grounds into the cup. Remember what I showed you earlier?” Irena asked gently. He spooned ground coffee into the cup, leveled it off, and twisted it onto the espresso machine.

  “Don’t forget to put a little pitcher under the spigot and then start it,” she said in a sweet voice, though at the same time rolling her eyes at me. “Milk is in the fridge. Pour some into the large metal pitcher and dunk the steamer rod into it. Hayley takes one sugar, which we know—and you will learn—because she’s a regular.” She winked at me and watched as he did the work and the machine began to work its noisy magic. “While you’re waiting for that to brew, you would take her money. This time her coffee is on the house.”

  When my drink was finally ready, she told the man she was training that she was taking a break. “I’ll be sitting right there in case you need me.” She pointed to the picnic table closest to the exit, but not more than ten yards from the counter.

  Once we were settled at the table, she asked, “Have there been any arrests?”

  I shook my head.

  “How did it go last night?”

  I took a sip of my coffee, hoping for an instant rush. “The food was fabulous but the company, atrocious. Most of the Cuban delegation declined to attend, and the mayor and his wife left early. It’s almost as though the weekend was cursed—and this dinner was the perfect bookend to that horrible Friday night party.” I hadn’t meant to sound so negative, but what was the point of sugarcoating the truth? Her own cousin had been stabbed to death opening night—she couldn’t have positive feelings about the event.

  The smile that Irena had kept on her face until now faded. “My aunt feels hopeless about the authorities figuring out who killed Gabriel. She doesn’t even believe that they’re trying. I’m beginning to think she’s not paranoid; she’s correct.”

  “I know quite a few cops in this town,” I said, reaching across the picnic table to squeeze her hand. “There’s no way they’re going to let the murder investigation slide. It’s dangerous. It’s bad for residents and tourists alike and it would make them look like fools. Your aunt may not see what they’re doing, but I know they’re working behind the scenes.” I didn’t think I should say that I’d just sent in a set of notes about my observations from the night before. It would not be reassuring to hear that I was helping them investigate—observing only, as Torrence would have corrected me.

  Irena merely shook her head and withdrew her hand from my grasp. “You can tell her all day long that Cuban-American people are just as important as plain Americans in this town and she’ll never believe it. I honestly think she’d return to Cuba if she could. I’ve got to get back to work,” she said, gesturing at the customers who were stacking up by the counter, fidgeting and grumbling. “This new guy can’t tell spent grounds from fresh beans. Let me know if you hear anything else, okay? Anyway, thanks for trying.”

  She was trying to appear cheerful, but the disappointment she felt about my lack of news was plain on her face. I couldn’t blame her. TV cops seemed to arrest murderers within the first twenty-four hours. We were eons behind that schedule. I felt guilty and sick about failing her and her family.

  She returned to my table one more time. “Can I just add that Maria seems terrified? She won’t tell me of what, but I can take a wild guess.”

  “I’ll keep working on it,” I said.

  The customer who’d had this table before me had left a copy of the Key West Citizen on the table, so I paged through it while I was finishing my coffee and attempting to shift my focus to planning the day. Two articles about the Cuban conference dominated the front page. The first mentioned the conflict of ideas between the protesters—those who supported rapprochement between our countries versus those who felt any softening of sanctions and regulations only fed the communist government. NPR reporter Nancy Klingener had supplied photos of the group protesting yesterday’s visit to view the refugee boats at the botanical garden. The second article, illustrated by a photo of police tape around the Friday’s crime scene, contained optimistic updates from the police chief.

  “We are pursuing all leads and expect to have suspects in custody shortly,” he’d said. “Citizens who may have information about the murder are encouraged to contact the police.” Two sentences that didn’t necessarily go together, I thought as I turned the page.

  The outlook for the weather was more sunshine and warmer temps. “This day in history” showed a photo of President Truman in shorts, a guayabera shirt, and a pith helmet, chatting with reporters on the front lawn of the Little White House, who likewise were wearing shorts. Just above the photo, the usual cranky suspects had filled the “Citizens Voice” comment line with complaints about rude taxi drivers, loud leaf blowers, and tourists too inebriated to check for traffic. The final remark caught my eye.

  Money, money, money, isn’t that what the Beatles sang? To solve the horrific and embarrassing murder at the Little White House, our chief needs look no further than to who the conference benefits. It certainly doesn’t appear to have helped the citizens of Key West.

  This might be true. And most likely, the people who were hoping to make money had been gathered around the table last night.
And Bob’s stewardship problems had to have a place on the list. Though it would seem counterproductive to murder someone at the event where he hoped his fortunes might be restored. Why Gabriel? It didn’t compute.

  Still, wouldn’t it make sense to look into Little White House finances?

  Who could help? The name that came to mind was Palamina. She would know where to go and how to do this, but she’d have mixed feelings, of course, not wanting me to butt in where I didn’t belong. And I didn’t want to raise Wally’s ire again by speaking to her separately. But, on the other hand, what if this was a big story, and I broke it or added material above what had already been gathered? What if I came up with leads crucial to the murder investigation? Not only would I be helping Irena and Maria and Carmen, but I could be saving Bill’s job, and providing publicity that our little e-zine didn’t often get. I decided I’d continue to puzzle over the murder as Gabriel’s family had asked. If I discovered something new, I could turn it instantly over to the police. No one could fault me for thinking, right?

  I left the coffee shop feeling mostly sad. I hoped the caffeine would hit hard and soon so I could get my work done in time for the deadline. And I hoped that reading cookbook introductions and looking at pictures would whet my stalled writing whistle.

  I power walked over to Books & Books, a bookstore founded by Judy Blume and her husband, to check out their selection of Cuban cookbooks. After that, I planned to hit Key West Island Books on Fleming Street and look at their quirky cookbook selection. It was such a relief to have two successful bookstores in town, steaming ahead.

  Books & Books was located in a corner of The Studios of Key West, a Miami deco building on Eaton Street that had been rehabilitated and filled to bursting with art, music, artists—and now books. In the cookbook section, my attention was drawn to a small white volume called Cortadito: My Wanderings Through Cuba’s Mutilated Yet Resilient Cuisine. Skimming through the first chapters showed me that the author felt considerable grief about the state of Cuban food today due to the economic problems in the country, though he had great memories of Cuban food in Miami. The author’s powerful yearnings for the old Cuba reminded me of Maria and Carmen. His doubts about the quality of Cuban food reminded me of Turner Markham’s comments last night.